Hobart: Tasmania’s Capital and a lot more according to the guidebook. I can’t really comment as I only spent 36 hours there, but did tick off perhaps the two most recommended things. Salamanca Saturday Market and MONA; The Museum of Old and New Art.

I don’t know these people, they’re just in my shot of the market…

Hobart is really no older than 175 years*. Early settlers were pretty canny back then, and doubtless chose places for a variety of reasons – not least the viability of the harbour potential. Shelter from the storm was more important than anything in the days of wood and sail and so a sound anchorage was paramount. As is the way with a clean drawing board, city expansion merely goes along grid lines and Hobart is no different. It doesn’t take much to navigate the orderly criss-cross of streets and avenues. A lot with reassuringly home-spun names like Collins, Evans, Liverpool, Gladstone; others with names suggesting the Scottish contingents; Murray, McGregor, Campbell and Argyll. These are interspersed with names from older parts of the colony – Melbourne, Brisbane and Macquarie. There’s the odd one named after what was there at the time. Sandy, Cove and Gum. In the years to follow, the opposite banks of this wide harbour were to be likewise populated as reliable ferry services became established and, latterly, splendiferous bridges were constructed.

[* anyone writing here should pre-empt this with a word about the Aboriginal people who may have lived on the island for as long as 65,000 years before 1830]

A fine juxtaposition – Irish Pub, Spanish name

We’ve all been to big weekend markets in big cities, but Salamanca Market [according to the guidebook] has the beating of them all. I can’t comment except for the fact it was impressive; and what was most notable, was the emphasis of everything being ‘Tasmanian’. A huge pride was evident in the statement – almost to a point where everything else was going to be inferior; which I’m sure was not the case. Writing here I can’t get that balance right; but there was a feeling that Tasmania is well beyond its old ‘backwater’ status, and is the ‘New New’ in Australia. Their statement is made through lifestyle, physical geography, produce, [fine wines from the southern most point of Australia], crafts and MONA; probably the most vibrant, daring and ‘new’ art statement in the World.* Citation needed in Wikispeke. Probably I should downgrade this to ‘what the author has seen…’

Don’t worry the bangers and burgers were gluten free

As if to reinforce the Salamanca and MONA point; the status of Tassie comes through in the media also. TV and Press. It’s said you learn an lot about a place through its local radio. I had for company either ABC [non commercial], or a station called Triple M. Triple M is wonderfully parochial, playing stuff that’s been global for 40 years – who plays Whitney Houston or Billy Joel these days? I had this and lots more as the gum forests and blue sea flew by; but being commercial radio, you got these reminders of where you were. A loop of talky adverts for ‘Bakeries that bake for Tasmania with Tasmanian produce’; ‘Bras [yes bras] made in Tasmania’; Hard wood, Soft Wood; Boats; Outdoor Events; Rosie’s Tassie chicken bites; and MONA.

Triple M was my friend; it even had a sports bulletin which, once it had got over the grief of watching its national tennis stars exit the Open, gave reports of England’s impressive march in the cricket ODI series. Bravo 3 nil up and waiting.

The ferry shuttle to MONA. An early exhibit to photograph on the 20 minute ride

David Walsh, the man that created the MONA experience has a lot written about him, and a lot of it makes extraordinary reading. The entire project was funded by his generosity [reported as initially $75 to build] with money he had made through gambling. I’m not sure, and don’t have time to detail any more here, but I heard it said that whatever the State’s opinion on gambling [some are trying to ban it across the entire country], his contribution to Tasmania accounts for 10% of its economy. Morally reprehensible?

The approach to MONA by boat gives nothing away, just an estuarine bank with a steepish rise of steps to a few smallish buildings and an all-weather tennis court. ‘Where’s the gallery?’ People are meant to say [I later heard this], as you walk across the green court. The gallery is underground, hewn out of the sandstone of the region. Giant caverns 4 stories deep.

In another world, the place could have been a film set. One of those Bond ones with men on buggies and cavernous chambers all full of people rushing to an fro in boiler suits. Taking the stairs down, I noted that the spiral went on down into the deep in a similar way to the spiral stairs you get on many a deep London Underground station. A depth that over the years you learned to appreciate when the escalator was out of order. A lot of steps.

The museum plan was to have no specified directional flow, and so visitors moved through the display areas with hardly noticing how far and how deep they had gone. Each room led seamlessly to the next. No signs and no information – they were not needed. The exhibits were explained only by a phone app which lit up with relevant images and information depending on your proximity.

It is widely touted in the critiques of the place that it is obvious that the art on show here is designed to shock and please, mystify and humour, to create a reaction – or none. You needed, sometimes, to look around and see what others were thinking before daring to have your own opinion…

All of this helped by bars, cafes and restaurants – almost at every turn. Cosy chairs and fine wines. People lapped it up, chortling and whispering. Replaying video clips, telling folk what they thought; texting Mum. Semi inebriated, on you went into the next arena of stimulus. A troglodyte’s journey through chasms of art, where you wandered and wondered whether you were going too fast or too slow. Would it be dark by the time I surface? Would I have any money left? I needn’t have worried, there were ATMs down here.

An illusion in a silent room with still oil

The tunnel, exhibits of rock from Ground Zero at Hiroshima, Dinosaurs made out of old audio cassettes [an extinction of our era, so to speak], a row of 50 plaster castes of women’s ‘bits’, machines that could have come from ‘Mad Max’, Astronomy, Physics, annoying sounds, lasers. BUT no unmade beds, bricks or animals in formaldehyde. Art from the AK47, magnetic filings, tennis balls and a ‘melted’ Ferrari. All in one day…

GOT YOU. The last one was a shot from the Unisex WC. My own work so to speak.

Back above ground, I remarked to myself how long I’d been down there – something like 6 hours. When I’d arrived I’d immediately noted the ferry return times, and memorised the departures for about 2 hours hence. Such was my reticence about the duration of my visit and exposure to Modern Art.

Gasping like a surfaced U-boat captain [not in the ‘Rainbow’ sense], I was above ground it was ‘show time’ and the place was erupting with live exhibits, music, massive BBQ stands, jesters, trumpeters and flamboyance. It was a place where you didn’t have to worry about who you were, [actually this was a strong Australian ideological mantra I heard throughout], so folk just strutted their stuff did the odd and the bold. Dungareesy types; bald women with hairy legs; Queens of the Desert; Spikes, Dikes & Devils; Martians; young men with Captain Haddock beards and odd haircuts that looked like shearing accidents; Trilbys; Flowery Suits; Brain Calming rooms [I only looked in] and more bars. People dressed like they were wanting to shock their Mums but no-one else. At $13 a glass of wine and $10 a beer, I was glad of the ATM.

And here, there was something else to learn, as there was no litter – none at all. This was because to eat you had to buy a plate, and drink, buy a cup. The plates were enamel and the cups a smart stainless steel. They cost $10, about 6 quid, and owning them pretty much guaranteed you’d keep using them for the duration. No beer snakes or cardboard boxes overflowing from bins, no piles of polystyrene one-use plates. When you left you handed back your utensils and got your money back. Minimal rubbish and all recyclable.

Apart from matey here who insisted on glass for the precious wine…

Can you imagine me in there??? Or hanging out in the place in the photo above?

I was in a room, I was told by a fit joculatrix, where ‘they only play music from countries which aren’t currently welcomed at US borders’. My phone battery went dead. No more pictures, and as if by iPhone censorship, the light faded and the rest is only done by memory. Perhaps best I didn’t hotspot.

Hands in pockets, I wandered the scene for a while, wondering which passports were currently banned at US immigration when I met a delightful quartet of locals who insisted on me joining them. Shiraz, Sauvignon, metal mugs and the sound of Aboriginal chanting from a bicycle troupe wending its way through a slightly staggering audience.

You enjoy the day? They asked. ‘Yes, I’ll be back…’ I assured them, making a calculation of distances involved to return.

Somehow I felt I would. 10,000 miles no probs.

Great Day.